


Scarlet Kisses

by Avengerz



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Anxiety, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, kid!Tony, kid!steve, they grow up though
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:32:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5147039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avengerz/pseuds/Avengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It lies 1.6 centimeters beneath his collar bone, a splash of crimson proudly bearing the name of his soulmate, and it's a never-ending, agonizing frustration that Tony can't read such bold letters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Beckendorf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beckendorf/gifts).



> This is currently planned to be eight parts. Rating, relationships, characters, and additional tags may be updated as I post the chapters.
> 
> For [Rani](http://www.tonystarkening.tumblr.com) because there was a distressing lack of Stony soulmate AUs in her life.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“There’s an ‘S,’ young sir,” Jarvis says, as he has many times before._
> 
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> 
>  
> 
> _“An ‘S’ doesn’t do me any good if I can’t read the rest,” Tony points out, his typical response._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bby!Tony has some sort of undiagnosed anxiety disorder and he sometimes deals with it by counting stuff idk

“Freak.”

The word is a casual blow, a mumbled word thrown almost gently from the second row of desks, but Tony can’t stop himself from flinching as it hits him. He should have long ago grown accustomed to these frequent injuries, but somehow they have become layered bruises that never get the chance to heal. So Tony ducks his head as the teacher turns away, pleased with the answer to the equation he had just given, and tries desperately to ignore the muffled giggling from behind him.

Five hours later, Tony sits at the kitchen counter and watches with quiet eyes as Jarvis cuts the vegetables for dinner. He can’t stop his eyes from tracking the scrawl of magenta on Jarvis’s wrist, peeking beneath the hem of his shirt, flashing up and down and up and down with the rhythm of his knife.

“Am I a freak?” Tony finds himself blurting into the quiet of the kitchen, and the butler’s knife abruptly stills. Tony counts the numbers; 3.2 seconds to set down the knife down on the counter 5.4 centimeters below, 12.6 to turn 110 degrees around - Jarvis is stalling, uncertain of what to say and suddenly Tony regrets saying anything. “Never mind,” he says, too quickly. “Forget I said anything.”

Jarvis’s eyes are gentle, and Tony, only eight and too scarred, can’t hold his gaze. “Are your classmates bullying you again, young sir?”

Tony lifts one skinny shoulder in a half-shrug and lets it fall. “Like you always say,” he mutters down towards the black marble of the counter, “they’re just jealous because I’m younger and smarter than them.”

“Indeed,” Jarvis says, and his tone is firm, unshakeable as the marble beneath Tony’s fingers. Silence stretches as Jarvis waits for Tony to continue, but Tony finds the words locking up in his throat, unable to escape past a tangled tongue.

After some time (47.8 seconds) Jarvis’s shoes squeak, and his finely pressed suit rustles as he turns back to the vegetables. 2.4 seconds after that, the rhythmic sound of a knife against a cutting board resumes. “Is this about your soul mark, young sir?”

Tony rips his gaze up from the counter to focus on Jarvis’s back, but the man is still looking down at his work. Freed from the attention, unoppressive though Jarvis’s always is, Tony manages to untangle his tongue. “Yes.”

Jarvis nods, his white hair flashing in the artificial light of the kitchen. “They think you’re a freak because you can’t read yours?” he prompts gently. That’s why Tony likes Jarvis. Well, it’s one of the many, many reasons Tony likes his family butler. But Jarvis knows how to talk to him, not with too-loud words and impatience like his dad, or disinterest and absent smiles like his mom. Jarvis actually listens, and knows how to help Tony say the words that get trapped behind his teeth.

Tony nods, then abruptly realizes that Jarvis can’t see the motion, and says aloud, “yeah.” He pauses for a moment (3.2 seconds) to order his thoughts, and Jarvis lets him think. It doesn’t help, though, and when Tony finally finds the words they burst from his mouth raw and unimpeded. “It’s not fair! Sam Hendricks and Sally Jenkins can’t even understand theirs ‘cause they’re not in English! At least mine’s in English!” Then Tony abruptly falls silent, and his small fingers dart to a space 1.6 centimeters below his collarbone. His next words are far more uncertain. “I think.”

There’s a click as Jarvis sets his knife on the counter and turns to face him again. (Tony didn’t count the time or the angle or the distance this time but he manages to convince himself that this is okay.) Calloused fingers gently pull Tony’s hand away from where he’s desperately clutching at the fabric over his chest. “Young sir, if I may...” Jarvis murmurs, and Tony doesn’t even hesitate before he pulls the collar of the t-shirt down just far enough to reveal the red nestled like a kiss below the jut of his collarbone. Jarvis’s lips purse as he examine it, but Tony doesn’t even need to look down to see it in his head. He’s studied it in the mirror often enough, and he knows Jarvis doesn’t really need to look at it again either, not after years of caring for baby Tony. But the man’s eyes flit over it anyways, and Tony half imagines those clear blue eyes could extract secrets from the mark that his own muddy brown never could.

“There’s an ‘S,’ young sir,” Jarvis says, as he has many times before. Tony finds himself tracing barely-discernible letter with a finger. It’s cursive, Jarvis had explained when he’d first asked about it, 5.63 years ago. It’s pointy at the top (like a blade, Tony remembers thinking), but then it softens out into a loop, fancy and soft. Tony can follow the line where it continues into the rest of the letters, the rest of the name. Or at least where it should continue.

“An ‘S’ doesn’t do me any good if I can’t read the rest,” Tony points out, his oft-used counter retort. He runs a finger in a familiar pattern over the rest of the mark. The letters are blotchy, like ink that’s been dipped in water. They run 3.8 centimeters down the curve of bone, scarlet and blurred and perpetually, agonizingly, illegible.

A hand cups his chin and pulls his gaze up from where he’d been glaring moodily at the patch of skin. “You’ll find them, young sir” Jarvis says, and he sounds too confident for Tony to even think about protesting.

But he does anyways. “Not necessarily.” Tony says, automatically rattling off the facts as if he had memorized them (he had). “Thirty-eight percent of the world’s population never find their soulmate. And eighteen percent of soulmate couples are only together for five years or less before either one or both of them dies or they split up. People don’t like to think that soulmates aren’t forever, but actually over six percent of couples will divorce or-”

“Tony.” Jarvis’s voice cuts him off and Tony drags his gaze from where he had fixed it on Jarvis’s tightly ironed shoulder as he spouted statistics to meet Jarvis’s gaze. Jarvis never calls him Tony unless it’s really important. “You’ll find them. And if they’ve any sense at all, they’ll love and adore you no matter what.”

Tony can only stare at him in silence, his words once again trapped but this time with a rising swell of emotion. He leans across the counter to wrap youth-skinny arms around Jarvis’s chest. The butler stills for just a split second (.56 seconds) before he, too, leans forward to wrap Tony in a hug.

No words are exchanged, and Tony actually loses track of the time as they embrace. Finally, Tony relaxes his grip and Jarvis pulls back. The butler pretends to pull wrinkles out of his jacket, giving Tony the chance to wipe what are most certainly not tears out of his eyes. In a silent, mutual agreement, they move on.

“Now, young sir, don’t think I’ve forgotten that you have Literature homework,” Jarvis says in a tone that’s just this side of too fond to be stern. “Go fetch that, and if you get it done before dinner I might ignore it if you visit the cookie jar a second time after dinner.”

Tony straightens from his slump against the counter, instantly interested. “Do we have snicker-doodle?” At Jarvis’s nod, Tony summons a grin that will someday make men and ladies alike swoon, mischievous but delighted, and hops from the chair. “Be right back, J!” He calls, and races to grab his homework.

For a moment, grief washes over Jarvis’s face as he watches Tony’s retreating back. “I do so hope they are worth it, young sir,” he murmurs. But there is a dinner to be made, and starving Starks wait for no man, so Jarvis shakes off useless worry and returns to his vegetables.


	2. Steve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You're special, sweetie," his mom had said gently when Steve asked what his mark said. "Your soulmate's making you work a little harder to find them._
> 
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> 
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> Special, _Steve thinks now, with the old bitterness that always accompanied such thoughts._ Fancy word for unnatural.

Sarah’s mark had followed the vein of her inner elbow, pale pink and faded in the way that only death brings. Steve had traced the words with feather-light fingers and wide eyes long before he truly managed to understand the concept.

“It's a gift from God,” his mom had murmured with a smile. “So that we can find the one we’re supposed to love.”

“Like how you found daddy?” It would take years for Steve to recognize her smile for what it is - sad.

“Yes, honey. Just like daddy.” 

Steve’s mark sits just beneath his collarbone, a splash of bright crimson on pale skin. “Why doesn’t mine say a name?” He'd asked one day, still innocent and learning how to read. “Yours says, uh…” Sarah sat patiently, arm outstretched as Steve mouthed out the words. “J-jo, uh, seph, Joseph Ro- Rogers! That's daddy's name, right?”

 Sarah had nodded, her expression indulgent. “That’s right, honey, very good.”

 Steve had beamed. “So what does mine say?” He had asked eagerly, and tugged down the collar of his shirt to reveal the mark painted down the bone. The strange angles and lines faintly present in the streak of red don’t look like any letters Steve recognizes, but... “I can’t read it, but I’m still learning, right? You can tell me!”

 Sarah’s smile had vanished. “Sweetie,” she began, and Steve frowned. His mother only used that voice when she had bad news, like how he’d have to stay home from school so he didn’t get the other kids sick, or that Santa wouldn’t be able to bring them very much that year. “You’re special. Your soulmate is making you work a little harder to find them.”

  _Special_ , Steve thinks now, with the old bitterness that always accompanied such thoughts. _Fancy word for unnatural._

 The weight of an arm suddenly slung across his shoulders breaks Steve from his increasingly sour thoughts.

 “We are in far too fine a place for that expression,” Bucky announces grandly, and when the frown doesn’t leave Steve’s face quite fast enough, his best friend shakes him slightly. “What’s the matter?”

 Steve heaves a sigh that rattles through the entirety of his skinny frame. “Nothing.” It’s so obviously a lie that Bucky only has to stare at him for a few seconds before Steve caves. “Just...thinking about my mom. And soul marks.”

 “Ah.” Bucky’s expression sombers. As Steve’s best friend for going on twelve years, he’s well aware of the dark thoughts that accompany each subject. But then he grins again and reaches up to ruffle Steve’s hair. “Come on, Stevie, this is a place to forget about soulmarks. Just have fun!” He gestures towards the dance floor, where several dozen young men and women appear to be living up to Bucky’s words.

 At that, Steve snorts. “Oh, yeah?” He asked, some of his good humor returning. “And what’s the name of the dame you brought, again?”

Bucky just grins wider, unashamed. “Sarah.”

Steve sighs and shakes his head. “It’s not her, you know that? Think I’d have noticed her mark.”

Bucky shrugged and scratched absentmindedly at the maroon “Sarah” printed in flowery script just below the curve of his jaw. “Doesn't mean I can't have a bit of fun. You could too, Stevie.”

“I don’t think I could have any of the ‘fun’ that you do,” Steve replies, a bit ruefully.

“Hey,” Bucky quips. “I’m sure being 95 pounds soaking wet is attractive to someone.” Despite himself, Steve finds himself grinning. Even after all this time, he still marvels at the fact that such a marvelous man decided to befriend him, the freak without a soul mark. “Now come on! Sarah’s waving us over, and she’s got a friend.”

Steve rolls his eyes, and lets Bucky drag him over as he once more attempts to push away the thoughts of soul marks. As ever, he’s not quite successful.

-+-

 The next week, Bucky is called into service.

 -+-

 A month after that, Doctor Erskine, for some strange reason that still bewilders Steve, accepts him as a test subject. He’ll be able to serve his country after all.

 -+-

Peggy is perfect. For a few brief, exhilarating days, Steve starts to wonder if she’s the one. Maybe that wordless splash of crimson does mean something, maybe it is a name, maybe it’s “Margaret”- but no. During one field exercise enough burrs catch in her stockings that she has to remove them, and Steve glimpses the orange “Angie” that curls around her ankle bone. The disappointment isn't as crushing as he’s half expected. Some part of Steve had still known that it wasn't to be.

 Steve doesn’t have a soulmate, and he needs to resign himself to it.

 -+-

It's the night before the procedure, and they’ve given him an empty barracks. Steve supposes he’s supposed to be grateful for the privacy before his life-changing day tomorrow, but he just feels lonely. His mind churns in a weird mix of anxiety and excitement and terror and pride. It’s exhausting, and for a moment, Steve misses Bucky so much it hurts. But then there’s a knock in the door. Before Steve’s heart can soar with irrational hope, a soft, accented voice calls out, “Steve?”

Oh. Erskine. “Yeah?”

At the acknowledgement, the doctor pushes open the door and enters the room. “Can’t sleep?” Erskine asks, and Steve shrugs.

“Got the jitters, I guess.” It seems an insufficient explanation for the chaos of his thoughts, but the doctor just nods.

“Me too.” He has a bottle in his hand, Steve notes absently, still caught up in his thoughts as Erskine sat down on the bunk opposite his.

“Can I ask you a question?”

A smile flashes across Erskine’s face. “Just one.”

Steve hesitates for a second, trying to find a better way to phrase what he wants to know. Then he gives up, and just says it. “Why me?”

Erskine doesn’t answer for several heartbeats, and Steve tries not to hold his breath as he waits. He’s not successful.

“Well,” the doctor says on a sigh. “I suppose that is the only question that matters.”

Another long pause, and when Erskine finally continues, Steve’s not entirely certain what he’s hearing. While it’s sad, and interesting, and a little horrifying to hear the good doctor’s background, and the rise of Hydra, it doesn’t quite answer his question. But then Erskine arrives at his point.

“The serum amplifies everything that is inside. So good becomes great, and bad becomes worse.” Steve doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. Erskine’s eyes are strangely knowing as he continues. “This is why you were chosen. Because a strong man, who has known power all his life, has no respect for that power. But a weak man knows the value of strength, and knows compassion.”

For a moment Steve can’t breathe. It’s not the asthma, for once, but an incredible wave of awe at the confidence and pride in Erskine’s voice. The doctor has no doubt in Steve.

“How can you have such trust in me?” Steve finds himself voicing his own doubts. “You think I’m a good man, that there’s no way I’d end up like Schmidt. But I don’t even have a soulmate!” The words come out with more force than Steve had intended, years of bottled insecurities appearing in a flash of excruciating pain. He yanks down the collar of his shirt, revealing the mark. “What kind of good man doesn’t even have one person in the world who could love him like that?”

Erskine doesn’t seem surprised, and his eyes are far too kind as he leans forward to clasp Steve’s shoulder.

“Bad men have soulmates, Steve. That makes them no less evil. Your value is worth far more than a few letters on your skin.”

He pulls back, leaving Steve mute and blinking far too frequently. Erskine begins pouring the scotch into two glasses, seemingly oblivious to the staggering impact his words have just had.  Steve has never been a heavy drinker - couldn't be, with his weight - but right now he’s ready to drink the whole bottle.

"You must promise me,” Erskine says, his tone solemn as he hands over the glass, “Whatever happens tomorrow, you must remain true to yourself. Not a good soldier, but a good man.”

“Thank you,” Steve murmurs in reply, struck humble. “I’ll try.”

The moment is ruined when Erskine takes away his drink, but the words linger with Steve for long afterwards.

-+-

Peggy probably knows his nervous chatter is just that, but she tolerates it with a smile. After listing the approximately twelfth place he's been beat up, Steve finally manages to force himself into silence.

Finally they arrive, and Steve is rather confused until he realizes that the seemingly innocent façade of a shop hides a secret army base.  _Of course_ , he thinks wryly,  _where else would you perform a top-secret super soldier experiment?_

His nerves, which had settled into a low buzz at the back of his mind, jump back to life as he enters the room. Tech completely beyond his understanding lines the walls, technicians and scientists and military officials mill about, and in the center-

_It looks like a casket_ , Steve thinks morbidly.

Why is he doing this again?

But Steve willingly steps up into the machine’s grasp and allows himself to be strapped in. This is going to hurt, he knows, but it'll work. Erskine smiles at him and Steve summons one for him in return. He trusts the doctor. (He sees Howard Stark and resolutely does not think about flying cars crashing.)

They're saying things, Steve recognizes, but he can't quite hear them over the ringing in his ears, so he just nods when it seems appropriate. Whatever they want him to do, he’ll do it.

The green doors close, leaving only a small square of yellow-stained light and the sound of Steve’s too-quick breaths. A flash of images crosses his mind's eye -  _his mother smiling; a smirking boy that calls himself Bucky; the splash of red that could be more_ \- and he manages to take a deep breath.

That's why he’s doing this.

Steve closes his eyes just as the pain starts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately real life is pretty crazy right now, so it might be a while before I can update again, but I promise I'm not going to abandon this fic!

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, I'd love to hear about it!
> 
> Also, you can find quicker updates or other fun ficlets at my [tumblr!](http://www.anthonyfuckingstark.tumblr.com)


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